Carsons' Christmas Eve
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: The Carsons' first Christmas Eve as a married couple. Written to fulfill the "Chelsie Christmas Challenge," an alphabetical list of 26 prompt words. Incorporating all, the story takes you from morning to bedtime. 1925 - set during S6.


**A/N: Happy Christmas, Chelsie shippers!**

 **This is my answer to chelsie fan's Christmas prompt, which is a 26-part prompt for Christmas, one for each letter of the alphabet. In lieu of a multi-chapter answer, I've rolled all the prompt words into one story; they appear in bold face type throughout. (I know _zany_ is a stretch given the person who utters the word here. Oddly, it originates from a word meaning "servants acting as clowns." I wish I wrote Crack!Fic, but alas I do not.) The full list of words appears at the end of this story.**

 **I do hope you enjoy! I'll have the Christmas (and final) chapter of "A Husband's Love" up on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. This story is completely unrelated (didn't want anyone confused).**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Xmas Eve,** 1925_

Elsie Carson can't help but smile as she watches her husband finish his morning preparations. They're about to head to the Abbey for what promises to be a day filled with more merriment than work, something for which both are very, very grateful indeed. At Lady Grantham's insistence, most of the time-consuming household chores were completed yesterday by bustling maids and swift footmen. Lady Grantham and Mrs. Hughes had agreed to the change in schedule to ensure that both the family and the staff could enjoy one last Christmas together, knowing full well that several members of their flocks - both upstairs and down - were soon to be scattered in the winds of change.

"You're staring at me," Charles rumbles, fingering his collar.

His voice tugs at his wife's heartstrings. She hopes she never loses the feeling that just a word or glance from him can give her. And now that their overwhelming love has been acknowledged, declared, solidified, and strengthened over these past several months, she knows she wouldn't change a thing about the long path they took to get here.

"I am," she agrees, her eyebrow raised as she approaches him. She reaches to adjust his necktie before her hands land on his chest. "You're looking rather **dashing** , Mr. Carson, I must say."

He dips his head for a sweet kiss. "And what makes me 'dashing' today, I ask you?"

"There's an excitement about you today, Charles. Even _you_ can't deny that Christmas Eve is a most promising time. I happen to know that you're looking forward to this afternoon at least as much as the children, and _perhaps_ even more than I am."

"Hmph. Whatever makes you say that?"

She looks up at his prodigious, furry eyebrows, which are currently raised in challenge, and reaches up to smooth one down with her fingertip.

"You talk in your sleep, Mr. Carson," she says with a playful wink. "And you sing in your sleep, too."

She scoots out of the way before his fingers can grab hold of her, laughing as she disappears downstairs to wait for him to be finished dressing.

"Don't be long, Charles!" she calls up. "Our path is sure to be covered with spots of **ice** this morning, and I expect my handsome butler to be extra vigilant escorting me to work."

"And what's in it for me if I get us both there unscathed?" he retorts as he joins her in the living room.

"Ohh, cheeky!" She approaches him and wraps her arms around his middle. "How about a cuddle in front of the fire tonight? Would that suit?"

"I shall spend all day looking forward to it," Charles replies with a smile.

The walk to the Abbey is, indeed, treacherous. The **weather** is frigid, although both Elsie and Charles hope that the rising sun will warm things enough to make the afternoon enjoyable. Both arrive at work with cold, red noses and chilly fingers, but on time and unharmed.

"There you two are," Mrs. Patmore greets them, fussing over them as they make their way to their respective offices and hang their coats, scarves, and hats. "I've got tea ready for you; you must both be frozen to the bone."

"Oh, bless you, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie tells her. "The wind was brutal!"

The cook hurries off to fetch the tea, and Charles pokes his head into his wife's sitting room.

"I'm going to go through my lists for the day and then finish the wine selection for tonight's dinner," he tells her. "I'll see you in an hour or so?"

"I'll be here," she replies with a smile. She watches him leave and then checks her own short list of tasks for today, making minor adjustments that she'd thought of on the walk over.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Anna's knock is soft on the door, and Elsie turns quickly.

"Oh, Anna! You're in awfully early. How are you?"

"Exhausted already," Anna says. "I don't know how women manage to _do_ this time and time again!"

"Well, you sit as much as you can today!" Elsie warns.

"I promise. I was wondering if you still wanted me to check the Great Hall?"

"No, I'll do that myself, thank you. You go and put your feet up. And under no circumstances are you to be joining us this afternoon! Only _three_ **kids** are allowed out there in those fields today, do you hear me? _Not_ four."

Anna laughs in reply. "Oh, have no fear. Mr. Bates would never forgive me if I joined you! I've been warned so many times that I think he's saying it in his sleep."

A fond, faraway look passes over the housekeeper's face; Anna furrows her brow, but then decides she'd rather not ask.

"Get away with you, then," Elsie says softly, pointing toward the door. "And I'll be checking up on you later, so don't let me catch you lifting anything heavier than Lady Mary's shoes."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," Anna says with a smirk, and she ducks out.

Elsie picks up the list again and moves one or two more things around, crossing Anna's duties off and adding them to her own. With a deep breath, she heads on up to the Great Hall, ready to check that the **tree** is in tip-top shape for this evening's celebration for the family.

As she passes through the baize door and into the hall, Elsie is mesmerized. The tree is always stunning, but it is particularly so this year. She inhales deeply, allowing the heady scent of the pine to invade her senses.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie starts at the sound of the voice, which she recognizes instantly. She walks around the tree to the other side and sees Sybbie Branson standing there, something clutched tightly in her small hand.

"I can't put it back," the little girl pouts.

Crouching down, Elsie asks Sybbie to show her what she's got.

"It fell," she says sadly, "but I can't reach to hang it again. Could you help me, please?"

As Sybbie splays her fingers, Elsie sees the ornament she was clutching in her hand: a small baby Jesus, tucked into a cradle.

"It goes up next to the Mummy," Sybbie whispers. "That's her up there. Her name is Mary, just like my Aunt Mary."

Elsie follows where the girl is pointing and does, indeed, see Mary and Joseph tucked into a branch about a third of the way up the tree.

"Oh, I see," Elsie says. "Well, I think I can manage that, my dear."

"It's like the **Advent** story we heard at church," Sybbie is explaining. "About remembering the baby Jesus's birth in the manger, and his Mummy who was so blessed to have such a special child."

"You know, Miss Sybbie," Elsie tells her, smoothing the girl's hair down in the back, "I believe _all_ mothers feel that way when their bairns are born."

"Well, the baby Jesus was _extra_ special," Sybbie says.

Elsie hangs the ornament and checks with Sybbie for her approval; the girl nods, and Elsie crouches down once more to her level.

"He was," she replies. "But every child is special in his or her own way. You're a lovely girl, Miss Sybbie, with a very big heart. You're a good role model for the other children, and you make your father very, very proud."

Sybbie nods some more, but her brow is still furrowed and Elsie realizes the girl is clearly still trying to work something out.

"What is it, child?" Elsie asks softly.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Sybbie looks at her with big, brown eyes full of **questions** _._ "Will **Father Christmas** know where to find me? Now that we are back in England and not in America? Will he?"

"Oh, I think he will, indeed," Elsie tells her as she stands again and holds out her hand to Sybbie. She smiles as Sybbie takes it and squeezes hers tightly.

"Good."

"Now, how is it that you ended up here all alone instead of upstairs with Nanny?"

"Oh, she walked me this far but I wanted to stop and look at the tree," Sybbie said. "We had time, so she made me promise to go straightaway to Mrs. Patmore after."

"Ah, that's right," Elsie says, leading the girl to the servants' staircase. "It's the cookie-making day! Well, you can come down to the kitchen with me, alright?"

Sybbie's eyes light up and she nods enthusiastically.

"Yes, please!"

Elsie leads the girl down the 'special staircase,' as the children call the servants' stairs, and into the kitchen.

"There you are!" Beryl says joyfully. "Master George and Miss Marigold have been waiting for you, Miss Sybbie."

"I needed help from Mrs. Hughes, but I'm alright now," Sybbie tells her, and the cook nods sagely.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes always has been the one to go to for advice," she says softly, and she and Elsie share a look full of memories of another young Sybil, the one who had come down for a cup of tea and a word of comfort from the housekeeper many, many times over the years.

"Well, I'm off, then," Elsie says to the cook. "Are you all ready for tonight? It won't be too much trouble with us all out of the house this afternoon?"

"No, don't you worry about a thing; it'll be _fine,"_ Mrs. Patmore says. "All under control, including the **pudding**. I've even told Daisy to join you if there's room."

"Good," Elsie says. "And I'm sure she can sit with Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter. Well, then, I'll leave you to it."

She turns to the children. "Now mind Mrs. Patmore, children. If you listen very carefully to her instructions, you'll have delicious biscuits to surprise your family with this evening."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes!" comes the chorus of their little voices.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

It's not long afterward that Elsie hears Charles's footsteps taking him back to his pantry, but she knows he has things to finish up before the afternoon and so she chooses to leave him be.

Occupying herself with last-minute bows and tags and a letter for Becky, nearly an hour slips by before she notices the smell of gingerbread emanating from across the corridor.

"It smells lovely down here," Charles says as he walks into her parlour. He places a kiss to the top of her head and pulls up a chair to her desk. "Can I help you with any of this?"

"No, I'm all set, I think," Elsie tells him as she affixes the last tag to a box on her desk. She sits back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. "There! Oh, actually, you could help me put these over on the table for tomorrow …"

"Of course."

They move and organize the **gifts** , with Elsie checking her list - twice - to be sure she's gotten them all.

"Is this the blanket?" he asks quietly, fingering a larger package's ribbon.

"It is," she confirms with a soft smile. "And from the look of Anna this morning, it won't be long now before they'll be needing it."

"I'm glad you finished it in time," he chuckles. "I was worried for a bit."

"You and me both! It's been ages since I've had the time to knit anything proper. But I think it turned out well."

"They'll love it," he reassures her, and he pulls out his watch to check the time. "An hour to go."

"And you tried to deny you were looking forward to it," Elsie teases him. "Did you make it to the nursery earlier?"

"No. I tried, but when I headed up they were already on their way down. I missed Miss Sybbie, somehow ..." he said, his brow furrowed. "She wasn't with the others."

"You just missed me, too, then. Miss Sybbie was with me in the Great Hall, trying to re-hang an ornament that had fallen from the tree."

"She must've been on the other side of the tree when I came by. I was miles away, I'm afraid." In truth, he'd been reviewing his plans for later that evening when they were home at the cottage, but it wouldn't do to let Elsie in on that.

"Well, we had a lovely little chat, and then I brought her down to Mrs. Patmore. Clearly they're having quite a bit of success with the gingerbread; you're right, it smells divine."

A peculiar smile crosses Charles's face. "Come with me," he says softly, extending his hand to her to assist her out of the chair.

She takes it, a question in her eyes, and she's pleased to note he continues to clasp her fingers until they exit the sitting room.

He walks over to the kitchen window and he and Elsie peer in, seeing a most delightful sight: George, Marigold, and Sybbie are rolling out a fresh batch of gingerbread dough, flour seemingly _everywhere:_ in their hair, on their aprons, and an amusing dot of it on Mrs. Patmore's cheek, too.

"Mind you go carefully, Master George," Mrs. Patmore is telling the boy. "There you are. Now, here's the cutter … Can you children do them all by yourself this time?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore," they reply.

"May I make an extra for Mr. Barrow?" George asks softly.

Elsie's heart melts as she hears the name come out sounding like _'_ _Ba-woh',_ and she's startled by the feel of her husband's whisper in her ear.

"Years ago, I stood in this very spot watching Lady Sybil, Mrs. Patmore, and Daisy. Lady Sybil had her heart set on **baking** a cake for her Ladyship's birthday."

Elsie hears his emotion and reaches for his hand once again; they're so close together that her skirts block the gesture from the view of anyone who might happen to walk behind them.

"Miss Sybbie is so very like her mother," Elsie murmurs. "In fact, she and I were just discussing that very thing."

"She is," Charles replies. "And it's wonderful."

When the children are finished their cookie baking, Mrs. Patmore sends them back up with Nanny to clean and prepare for the afternoon.

"Where are we going?" Miss Sybbie asks.

"It's a surprise," Nanny reminds her. "But you must be warm and snug, so let's fetch your warmest coats."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

By the time Nanny presents herself outside with the children, the rest of the family and most of the staff (save Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Bates, and Anna) are rounded up by the front door.

Elsie laughs as Marigold and Sybbie squeal with delight at the sight before them: two red, shiny sleighs, with a team of two beautiful, chestnut-coloured horses pulling each. One of the horses whinnies at the sound of the squeals and stomps his feet, causing the **bells** on his harness to **jingle**.

"Are we _all_ going?" Master George asks quietly, and his mother nods.

"We are," she tells him. "We'll divide up. You and I will be with your Uncle Tom, Sybbie, and the Carsons, and then Donk, Granny, Aunt Edith, Marigold, Mr. Molesley, Miss Baxter, and Daisy in the other."

They pile into the assigned sleds, with Charles and Elsie assuming the seat furthest back from the horses, affording George and Sybbie the chance to be closer. But to everyone's surprise, Elsie feels a gentle tug on her skirt.

"Mrs. Hughes? May I sit with you and Mr. Carson?"

Elsie looks down at Sybbie and then shoots a glance to her father, who smiles back fondly from where he stands on the sleigh's steps.

"Why don't you and Mr. Carson take the middle spot?" he suggests. "That is, if you don't mind."

"We don't mind, Mr. Branson," Charles replies softly. "If you're sure?"

"I am."

Charles moves into the middle seat and Sybbie follows, in order to sit between him and Elsie for the ride. Once settled, she turns and reaches across the seat back for her father's hand, which he gives her willingly.

"Once we get moving, Miss, you'll want to sit more properly so that you don't get hurt," the driver advises, and Sybbie nods excitedly.

Lady Mary holds George steady on her lap and turns to face Charles and Elsie. "Looks like you've got a stowaway," she teases, and Charles laughs.

"Just like old days, Milady," he acknowledges, and Elsie looks at him quizzically.

 _Later,_ he mouths, and she understands. It had never occurred to her that Lord Grantham might have arranged for sleigh rides when his daughters were young, but of course he would have. In all the years she's known him, Elsie has always felt that above all else, Lord Grantham had been a kind, caring father to all of his daughters.

With a flick of the straps and a jingle of the silver bells, the horses are off. Sybbie dutifully turns and sits safely on the bench, facing forward, and she smiles when Mrs. Hughes reaches around her shoulders and hugs her gently. She imagines that this _might_ be what it would have been like to ride with her Mummy. She knows Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes aren't a Papa and Mummy to anyone of their own, but her own Papa has said Mrs. Hughes was _like_ a Mummy to him when he was homesick for his real home in Ireland.

She thinks she knows what that might feel like.

And then the sleigh passes over a small hill, and she and George shout gleefully, much to the delight of all the passengers on board the sleigh. Sybbie looks to the side to see Marigold's sleigh beside theirs, and she waves as Marigold waves back, laughing.

Elsie catches Charles watching her and she returns his stare over the little girl's head, each of them taking a moment to appreciate the unbridled love and joy in the other's face.

"Carson," George asks after they've turned to head back to the Abbey. "Might we sing the sleigh song?"

Lady Mary turns to him, confused, but Sybbie is already shouting, "Yes!" and then, across to the other sleigh, "Marigold! The sleigh song!"

And before any of them can ask, Sybbie, George, and Charles begin, with Marigold joining in after the first couple of words:

 _ **Over the river and through the wood,**_

 _To Grandfather's house we go._

 _The horse knows the way_

 _To carry the sleigh_

 _Through the white and drifted snow!_

Elsie and Lady Mary share an amused glance, one which Tom returns when Elsie raises an eyebrow in _his_ direction.

"He spends time in the nursery," she says to them softly. "About once a week. I always assumed you knew."

"Oh, we did," Lady Mary laughs fondly. "We just didn't know there was _entertainment_ provided!"

Elsie finishes laughing just in time to join in for the next verse.

 _Over the river and through the wood,_

 _With a clear blue winter sky,_

 _The dogs do bark_

 _And children hark_

 _As we go jingling by!*_

 **oOoOoOoOo**

When they return to the Abbey, Mrs. Patmore and Anna are waiting just inside, with **eggnog** and hot cocoa for the staff and the family.

Elsie raises an eyebrow at Anna, but Mr. Bates explains immediately that his wife has, indeed, been resting the entire time they've been gone.

"She did try to get up once," he confides with a wink, "but I may have threatened her with your impending return."

"Excellent!" Elsie laughs.

"So," declares Mrs. Patmore, clapping her hands once and rubbing them together, "that'll warm you all for now, and we'll have our dinner in an hour and a half. Does that suit, Mr. Carson?"

"That's just fine, thank you." He turns to Elsie. "Would you mind helping me with a couple of things, if you've a free moment?"

"Oh, I'm not sure I can," she says, rolling her eyes and causing a giggle to erupt from both Anna and Miss Baxter. She follows him down the corridor, of course, her hands wrapped around her mug of cocoa in the hopes that she'll regain feeling soon in the tips of her fingers.

"It's just in here," Charles explains as he leads her into his pantry, but Elsie is intrigued when he closes the door firmly behind them and locks it.

"Charlie," she warns quietly, resting her cocoa on the side table. She knows full well that, married or not, the two of them sequestered behind the locked door would raise the eyebrows of most who might happen to be looking for them at any given moment.

"I know; I'll be quick about the first bit," he says, and he glances up at the ceiling.

Elsie follows his gaze, and her **laughter** bounces off the walls before she claps a hand over her mouth.

"Shh, don't give me away," Charles says quietly as he grabs her around the waist and pulls her close. "But I don't believe I've been kissed **under the mistletoe** _once_ this year, despite it hanging in both my office and yours _and_ at the cottage."

"Well, love," she replies quietly, placing her hands on his hips and then sliding them back - and down a bit over his bottom, "perhaps I _can_ help you, after all."

He captures her lips softly at first, but as he brings his hand up behind her shoulder blades and pulls them impossibly closer, Elsie manages to separate his lips and touch the very tip of her tongue to his, and it's a fair few long moments before they break apart at last.

"Well," he gasps, "that's certainly more than I had in mind - _not_ that I'm complaining, of course."

"I would hope not," she agrees, breathless. "Now, I presume you didn't just call me in here so that you could kiss me senseless."

"Me?" he retorts, astonished. "That was _your_ fault, love."

"Well," Elsie replies, patting his chest, "be that as it may …"

Charles relinquishes his hold on her and straightens his jacket as he moves over to his desk; bending down, he removes a box from the floor and sets atop the desk blotter. He turns to find Elsie fixing her hair in the looking glass on the wall, and smiles as he waits for her.

She finally turns and catches him watching her, and she smiles.

"What have you got there?" She moves closer and peers in the box. "Oh, Charles! It's beautiful!"

Elsie reaches in and carefully draws a finger over a wreath made of **holly and ivy,** the red of the berries shockingly bright in the dim light of the pantry.

"Where did it come from?" she enquires.

"The gardener did it for me, when I asked - he used the clippings he'd been taking off of the bushes and vines on the estate. I'd like to leave it for Mrs. Patmore, as a surprise, in thanks for putting together the special dinner we requested for this evening. I know it was quite a bit more work for her than usual, and on top of the cookies she helped the children with and everything else, I thought perhaps she'd appreciate a spot of holiday cheer."

Elsie feels a lump creep into her throat and she swallows it with some difficulty.

"Charles Carson," she manages, looking up at him, "you are, quite possibly, the most thoughtful man I've ever met."

"So you like it?"

Elsie's hand flies to her chest and she shakes her hand as he puts his arm around her waist.

"You daft man, of _course_ I like it, and so will she. It's beautiful."

"Good." He leans down for a quick kiss and then turns back to the box. "Because I got a second one for the cottage, and it should be hanging on the door when we return. Now we'll just have to hide this one until dinner, when I'm counting on you to find a way to sneak it into the kitchen unnoticed."

Elsie ponders for a moment, then nods.

"That shouldn't be a problem. I'll just need you to play along ..."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The Christmas Eve dinner is better than any they can ever remember having had in previous years. Everyone enjoys a relaxed meal filled with laughter and merriment, but it's not long after the main meal is finished that Anna feels the need to head on home.

"Now don't you get any **zany** ideas about showing up here to dress Lady Mary," Elsie advises. "Miss Baxter has already agreed to take care of her. I don't expect to see you until at least noon, and Mr. Molesley will see to his Lordship," she adds with a nod in Mr. Molesley's direction.

"A Happy Christmas, indeed," Mr. Bates smiles. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Truly."

They leave, and after that the little dinner party winds down quickly.

"Mrs. Patmore," Charles calls to her. "Might I have another helping of that delicious Christmas **pudding**?"

"Right you are, Mr. Carson," she replies gleefully, bringing him a new plate with a rather _large_ second helping.

"It was remarkable," Elsie is telling the cook, giving a sideways nod toward Charles as he begins to tuck in. "But thanks to you, I'm going to have to roll him home, I think."

"I beg your pardon," Charles retorts, bushy eyebrows aloft. "Besides, it's Christmas. I see no reason why not to have an extra portion."

"Oh, alright," Elsie sighs, and she brushes her hand over his knee as she sneaks her own spoon over to his plate and steals a bite. "It _is_ very good, Mrs. Patmore."

The cook, however, is stunned by the playful show of affection she's just witnessed.

"Tha- Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she stammers, and she heads back into the kitchen.

"Do you think she suspected?" Elsie whispers to her husband, giving a wink to Miss Baxter, who has just emerged from the kitchen and winks back.

"Not at all," Charles says; seconds later, they hear a small yelp from the cook's desk.

Elsie heads into the kitchen, seemingly in search of the source of the peculiar noise.

"Oh, you sweet woman. It's beautiful," Mrs. Patmore says to her.

But Elsie just shakes her head. "It is beautiful, but it's not from me," she says.

"No?"

"I promise."

Beryl scans the remainder of the staff in the room: Mr. Molesley, Miss Baxter, Charles, Andrew, and Daisy.

She turns back to the housekeeper.

"He didn't."

The corner of Elsie's mouth turns up. "He may have," she admits. "To thank you for all your hard work lately, and especially for taking such good care of us all with this fabulous feast."

"Oh, it weren't much," the cook whispers. "Our last hurrah though, isn't it?"

Elsie reaches an arm sideways behind the cook and pats her friend's back gently.

"In some ways, perhaps," she says sagely. "But we're none of us going _too_ far. Chin up, Mrs. Patmore. They're not closing up shop yet."

The cook nods tearfully, unable to speak, but Elsie understands her all the same.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The walk home is quite bitter, indeed, but the ice seems to have melted some during the day and so it's less treacherous overall.

Charles unlocks the cottage and rushes Elsie inside, closing the door firmly behind them with a sigh.

Elsie smiles as she hears the _swish_ of the wreath against the wooden door. She'd noted its beauty when they approached the cottage, but she didn't want to linger in the cold.

 _Dear man,_ she thinks.

"I thought we'd never get out of there," he's saying.

"Well, if someone hadn't had two helpings of the Christmas pudding," she teases, and he laughs.

"Only to help you, if I recall. But I'll accept full blame. That was delicious."

They hang their coats, scarves, and hats, and Elsie suggests they change before enjoying a nightcap by the fire.

"A most excellent idea. Please," Charles says, gesturing toward the stairs. "After you, Mrs. _Carson."_

Elsie smiles at him and sighs happily.

"That's my favorite part of coming home every night," she says. "You calling me that instead of 'Mrs. Hughes.'"

"Mine, too," he admits lovingly. "Now, go."

Elsie obeys, and as soon as she's out of sight, Charles heads to the kitchen and removes the box he'd placed on the uppermost cabinet shelf a couple of days ago. Pausing a moment to listen, he verifies that Elsie is in the bathroom and likely washing, judging from the faint sound of the water running, and he takes the secret box to the parlour.

He opens the lid and extracts two **velvet stockings,** one red and one grey, and hangs them off the mantle, using each of the bookends there to hold them in place. He centers them, but then realizes the heat will likely melt the chocolate he's placed in Elsie's stocking, and so he moves them to the far sides of the mantle instead. It works even better that way, he observes, as it leaves open their view of the fire from where they'll be cuddling on the sofa.

Charles has just enough time to remove Elsie's gift from the same box and tuck it underneath the tree; he hears her soft footfalls on the stairs and turns to greet her with a squeeze of her hand in his.

"Something's different," she's muttering, her brilliant eyes scanning the room. "Oh, Charlie! You've gotten us _stockings?"_

"I have. I wanted it to be a proper Christmas," he tells her.

"And mine's already got something in it? How is that possible?"

"Well, it _is_ Christmas Eve …"

Elsie giggles, and then realizes belatedly that the fire hasn't been started.

"We're going to freeze if we don't light a fire, Charlie. I hadn't noticed because the kitchen one is going well."

"I know; that one always takes quickly. Come on, then."

He tugs her hand gently and pulls her over toward the fireplace, waiting for her to spy what sits on the log rack.

She gasps when she spies the **Yule log** resting atop a pile of kindling.

"It's to remind you of your childhood," he murmurs from somewhere just behind her. He wraps his arms around her middle and rests his lips against the top of her head. "Of your family. Christmas should be a time of carrying on our family traditions; the stockings remind me of _my_ childhood, but I thought this might help you to remember yours."

Elsie leans back into his embrace. "You're my family now, Charlie. Or at least half of it."

"And I'm glad," he reassures her. "But I'm a Yorkshire man, and you are not."

"Duly noted," she chuckles.

"I've learned that a Yule log is generally given, not bought," he states. "So I'm giving it to you."

"Thank you, Charles."

"You're very welcome. I understand that by burning one, you'll have a year of good luck ahead."

"I would anyhow," Elsie says, feeling for the first time that day the slight tremor of his hand as he lays it upon her stomach, "because I've married _you."_

He squeezes her, and she enquires, "What else do you know about them?"

"Just the rest of the lore," he replies. "There's a sprig of green waiting by the front door, ready for me to clip a bit of it and bring it in before I clear the ashes out of the fireplace."

"A green sprig brought in before anything is taken out," Elsie recites from childhood memory. "Do you know, we used to call the log 'Yeel Carline,' which means 'The Old Christmas Witch?' Burned, of course. Now there's some lovely holiday symbolism for you."

"That is rather barbaric," Charles declares, and Elsie agrees.

"It is, but it's the tradition. And the log must burn through before it burns out, as you said; that's really the source of the good luck for the coming year."

Charles leans around her and places a kiss to the tip of her nose.

" _You're_ my good luck," he whispers. "You always have been."

Charles lights the kindling and they move to the sofa, cuddled up against one side of it with Elsie tucked under her husband's arm. They watch as the kindling and log both go from soft burn to vibrant blaze, the popping and crackling the only sound in the cottage for some time.

" **Cozy fire,"** Elsie says eventually, "warm husband, and …" She reaches into her pocket and pulls something out, placing it on Charles's leg. "A gift."

Charles picks it up, noting its not-too-heavy weight.

"Am I to open this tonight, or wait until tomorrow morning?"

"Tonight," she tells him decisively, and he withdraws his arm from her shoulders to comply.

Charles pries the ribbon off and lifts the paper slowly, revealing a small, red box. He grasps the lid, although his fingers are trembling slightly, and lifts it to reveal a new set of cuff links.

"They're bigger," he notes instantly, and he removes one from the box.

"They are." She waits, unsure of how, exactly, he'll feel about them once he cottons on.

Charles flips the hinged portion on the end and smiles lovingly at his wife. His head shakes slightly as he marvels at the beautiful gesture hidden behind the gift.

"They're _easier,"_ he murmurs. "Elsie, I … _thank you."_

"You're not ... offended?" she asks playfully.

"That's the last thing I am," he replies with a chuckle, still awestruck by the gesture. "I think I'll be able to manage these much better; the back is sturdy and should fit through the cuff nicely. The hinge is tighter and turns more smoothly than the other pair, but the shape is easier to grasp as well."

"I'll still help you, of course, when it's really bad," she reminds him. "And any other time you'd like me to. But, well …"

"But it'll be nice to be able to do it myself," he nods. "Yes."

Charles reaches over to cup his wife's face, burrowing his fingertips in the hair behind her ear as he pulls her closer for a kiss.

"Thank you," he says again. "I love them."

"Good," she replies, and she watches as he puts the links back in the box and sets it aside.

"There's wine," he tells her. "A rather lovely one for tonight." He taps a finger to his chin, thinking. "There is also a small box under the tree with your name on it."

Elsie looks over to the tree, knowing full well that there was _no_ box there with her name on it this morning.

But, sure enough, a box wrapped in lovely green tissue sits there now.

She gets up to fetch it, then plops back on the sofa like a schoolgirl, giddy with excitement. The shape of the box is quite telling, and she's certain she knows what it contains, except that it's a bit _heavier_ than she'd imagined and that's throwing her off.

"You look like a child," Charles laughs, and the rumble of his voice warms his wife once again.

"I feel like one," she admits. "This is the first Christmas that I get to be a wife being spoiled by her husband. I know that whatever is in this box is no useful bar of soap, nor letter paper for work."

"No," he confirms. "Go on, then."

She opens the gift and lays the paper aside, gasping to reveal that her guess was correct; inside the box, set in white tissue, is a set of navy-colored, fur-lined gloves.

"Oh, Charles," she gushes. "These are _gorgeous."_

And they are. The leather is soft and supple, while the lining is incredibly warm.

"Try them on," he encourages her, and she smiles and lifts both out to comply … which is when she finds the item whose weight had been confounding her at the start.

Tucking her left hand into its glove, Elsie touches something that feels like metal. She looks over to her husband to find him smirking, clearly pleased at having surprised her. She withdraws the item and it slides into her palm.

"Oh, Charlie," she whispers tearfully. "It's a luckenbooth."

"You don't say?" he teases, leaning over and placing a kiss to her temple. "Happy Christmas, Elsie."

"It's lovely." She turns it in her fingers, smiling as it catches the light from the fire. The two hearts, intertwined. A perfect, Scottish symbol of their love, and one that she can wear pinned to her scarf or coat with pride.

She tries on the gloves and they fit perfectly.

"A very Happy Christmas, indeed," she says, setting the gifts on the table and tucking herself against her husband's side once more.

Charles hands her a glass of wine and they toast the coming New Year, each sipping and reflecting how they already feel so very, very blessed _this_ year.

"You know, Charlie," Elsie says after a few moments of staring into the fire, "I believe you owe me a story."

"Ah, yes," he remembers, lacing his fingers with hers. "There's not much to tell, really. I'm sure you've already guessed the gist of it all."

"I've figured out that Lord Grantham must have, at least once, procured a sleigh to bring his own daughters on a ride for the holidays," she tells him. "But how _you_ came into play is the bit I'm not sure of. I presume he asked you to accompany them with Nanny?"

"No," Charles says. "Lady Mary did. _Instead_ of Nanny."

Elsie's eyes widen in shock. "Oh, how mean-spirited of her."

"You didn't know that particular Nanny," Charles frowns. "She was truly horrid, Elsie. The younger girls never did remember her, but Lady Mary did. And before you go thinking that she was just reacting to Lady Mary's particular attitude toward life, I can assure you that even Lady Grantham would back me up. Once it was discovered that she was telling the girls horrible things to frighten them at night if she felt they'd behaved poorly that day, she was sacked immediately."

"What a cruel thing to do!"

"It was," Charles agrees. "And so it happened that Lady Mary decidedly did _not_ want to be off on what was supposed to be a jolly ride with the likes of that Nanny. She came to my pantry and asked _me_ to accompany them; I agreed, assuming that she'd already garnered his Lordship's blessing."

"Which she clearly had _not,"_ Elsie smirks.

"Just so. But when I arrived at the sleigh, and there were clearly only seats enough for six of us - Lord and Lady Grantham, myself, and the three girls - Nanny was asked to remain behind as Lady Mary was already clutching my hand tightly in her own."

"Oh, of course she was." Elsie laughs at the image. "Her own personal Father Christmas, as it were."

"Complete with **music** ," he adds with a raised eyebrow, "because, as Lady Mary told her father, 'Carson always knows the words to the carols.'"

"And so caroling and sleigh rides aren't a new experience for either of you, like today was for Master George," Elsie concludes. "I see."

She smiles at him, and his heart warms at the realization she's just led him to.

"I'd not thought of it like that, but you're right, of course - it _is_ a new thing that we've been able to share with them today."

"Yes. And a way for Lady Mary to pass along the best parts of _her_ childhood to her son."

Elsie snuggled further into Charles's side, handing him her empty glass; he places it on the table with his own as his wife wraps her arm tightly around his middle.

"I rather love that story," she murmurs, and she sighs when Charles trails his fingers across her hip. "And the butler who rests at the heart of it all."

"I'm glad."

"I rather love _this,_ too," she adds, squeezing him. "Our little **nighttime** ritual, the wine or sherry or a wee dram before turning in."

"Made lovelier by the fact that we may now partake of that ritual in our own home," Charles agrees.

"Of course."

They sit for quite a while, thinking back over the day and what tomorrow will bring, each looking forward to peeking inside their stockings in the morning. Elsie has a couple of small items tucked away in her bureau, things she'd held back for Christmas morning so that he'd have something else to open, and she's certain that she'll be able to sneak down in the middle of the night and tuck them in the stocking without waking him.

The Yule log is almost burned through when Elsie shifts, sitting up and standing gingerly, stretching and rolling her eyes at the creaks and cracks that accompany the action. Extending a hand to Charles, she helps him up off the sofa.

"Since we're not expected until later in the morning," Elsie says, her eyes quite bright and awake despite the late hour, "I believe I'd like to continue this evening _upstairs."_

"Really, Mrs. Carson? Do you fancy a bit of **reading** before bed?"

His smile gives him away, as does the twinkle in his eye.

"Ha! Hardly, Mr. Carson." She reaches down and tweaks his bum.

"Elsie! Just what do you take me for?"

Elsie steps back and examines him: red pyjamas, reddened nose from the wine, hair growing more silver every day …

She pats his belly and reaches up to scratch the stubble on his jawline.

"Well, I imagine that if you grew a beard, you'd look like a proper Father Christmas," she teases. "But for right now, I think I'll be content with a little Christmas magic from my _husband."_

And, with that, she takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs, grateful for the millionth time that, exactly one year ago, she agreed to become the Mrs. Claus to his Father Christmas.

 _One year ago …_

She stops midway up the stairs.

"Elsie?"

She turns to face him and leans forward to kiss him, smiling as she does so at how much lower on the steps he is from her and how she doesn't need to bend down.

"It's been the most wonderful year, Charlie," she whispers, her voice catching. "I'm so very, very glad I chose to be stuck with you."

"Happy Christmas, Elsie."

"Happy Christmas, Charlie."

She squeezes his hand, and they continue on up to bed, bringing in their first Christmas Day as husband and wife tucked safely in one another's arms.

* * *

 **I'd love a little review if you're so inclined. Wishing you all a happy and healthy holiday season. xxx**

 _*Note: The original poem as published in the 1854 edition of Flowers for Children, Part II, pp. 25-28._

 _Full list: Advent, baking, cozy fire, dashing, eggnog, Father Christmas, gifts, holly and ivy, ice, jingle bells, kids, laughter, music, nighttime, 'Over the River and Through the Wood,' pudding, questions, reading, stockings, tree, velvet, weather, Xmas Eve, Yule log, zany._


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